Coming out of a bar
and into a metro car,
drowned liver ready
to birth it all out
at any minute,
I sit and watch
two foreign mammals
bump into each other
over some manuscript, a novel
with a rotting cover in red and green,
appealing enough for him
to sit next to her
and open his mouth;
he wants to know;
She sparks up with giggly shyness
and talks back,
just like that!
A book!
Not a mini skirt
or a hot sexy wink wink,
just yellow aged paper
binding them to each other,
conversing in an improvised
bar where the only light fixtures
are shuddering fluorescents
and the only intoxicants
are words printed long ago.
High-tech still has a long way to go
to match this kind of beauty.
Bera Tremoz
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-school/